Of Cases & Cocaine Addicts
by Decoded3
Summary: Inspector Lestrade could never have anticipated the affect Sherlock Holmes would have on him when he dragged the addict's prone form from a dank gutter in the shadows of London. However, it became all too clear as he watched his body being lowered into a 6 foot deep hole in the ground.


**This project was done for creative writing and I think I may have blown my teacher's mind because.. I kinda blew my own with this. -Shameless lack of modesty.**

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When I first met Mr. Sherlock Holmes his brilliant mind was drowning in the filthy sewage drains of Greater London; a tall, pale corpse amongst the rats and overwhelming stench. Everything within me had recoiled at the state of this particular addict. Nevertheless, my duty as an officer of Scotland Yard compelled my arms and legs to move. Little had I known how, in lifting this disgusting figure from the rubbish I would affect my career as well as my very life so drastically. Only later was it that I discovered his intellect. What could possibly persuade a man of such incredible mental capabilities to resort to_ cocaine_ remains a mystery that even the man in question cannot deduce.

When asked of these matters, his response is casual to the extent of flippancy. It was as though he were commenting on the weather. "I was simply bored."

In return for solving many of my most trying cases with his odd, yet extraordinary skills Mr. Holmes asked only for anonymity. For a long while these puzzles were enough to satiate his starving mind, consuming detail after detail and retaining that information, recalling it effortlessly when the situation called for it. However, I was never fully able to quell the ugliness lurking behind that cool façade. I once inquired after his activities outside of this strange occupation he'd elected.

He said to me, "For me, there is always the cocaine."

My fears had been confirmed. From then on I was sure to bombard the detective with as many frivolous reports as I could send his way. It quickly became clear that my attempts were in vain. Slowly, it became apparent that I was clutching at an empty hope of Holmes ever breaking free of his destructive tendencies. Somehow, despite the thousands of cold cases and conundrums I knew instinctively that they were not enough to deter him from the drugs. The speed with which he drew impossible conclusions, discovered such 'blatantly obvious' solutions ("You see, but you do not _observe_, Sergeant.") was frightening.

The criticism was brutal in the beginning. An amateur, a notorious_ drug addict_ no less, although the most highly functioning addict I have ever met, invited to survey crime scenes? I was scoffed at, ridiculed, belittled… promoted. The closure rating for my cases was nearly one hundred percent, largely due to Holmes who so quickly became Sherlock.

I am the only officer he will- _would_ work with.

Then came Doctor John Watson.

Imagine my shock to discover Sherlock Holmes had made an acquaintance! The retired army doctor trailing obediently behind the taller man with a look of awe and amazement at every 'deduction' Sherlock voiced. I could not have foreseen the influence that this seemingly meek man would hold over the great detective. I hardly cared to recall his name so little did I expect to witness this duo together again, but when next Sherlock arrived this remarkable gentleman strode beside the taller man as though it were the only place in the world he surely belonged.

This man who within _one day_ had gained the trust of Sherlock Holmes stirred a deep suspicion within me. I remained wary for some time, observing his actions and behavior, keeping track of them both from the flat they now shared on Baker Street (imagine _living _with him!),but there was nothing to suggest a negative effect on my friend.

It turned out, in fact, to be quite the opposite.

The ice began to melt and the machine began to _feel _! Sherlock began to express himself in way I had previously considered inconceivable for the man. Sherlock and Doctor Watson were inseparable. I often found myself incapable of imagining one without the other. Not only did the doctor appear to tolerate Sherlock's eccentricity and compulsiveness with equal patience, but he and the detective got on well. I was flabbergasted to overhear Sherlock introduce Doctor Watson to a client as 'his close friend'. Never before I think, have I heard the word 'friend' pass his lips, certainly not in regards to someone else! On occasion I would catch a fleeting glance of the two lingering in the corner, a smile resting on both of their faces. An expression I'd often considered foreign to the man's aquiline features. Despite all of my previous misgivings, this strange man from nowhere went from being Dr. Watson, to simply John in my mind.

Sherlock's insensitivity dwindled. Eventually, it nearly vanished altogether, flickering out like a candle's flame in the face of a gentle breeze. Who was this Watson fellow to transform such a man of stone? A man who was once merely existing as a miserable wraith, drowning in his own self-destruction. I dared not ask after Sherlock's old habits for fear that the doctor was unaware of his previous endeavors.

As I said once before, Sherlock was the highest functioning addict I have ever met. If he were partaking in these hazardous pastimes it was doubtful I could tell, even if I were looking for it. Therefore, I could not be certain those days were behind him.

The day I learned Sherlock had been clean for three months was upon the day of his funeral. I attended of course, as did John and Mrs. Hudson (the men's landlady?), the entirety of Scotland Yard, only ¼ of which had actually chosen to come and a very select few clients who were aware of his involvement in a case or two.

As I watched the coffin descending into the frigid December earth I choked back tears and concluded that the world was decidedly unfair, even cruel. Sherlock Holmes had been brought to life only to sacrifice himself on behalf of the only broken man who had managed to dredge him from whatever fathomless depths he'd traversed.

Something I had failed to do.

Now, as I find myself looking at that very man, at John, a mirror of past events appears before my mind's eye; of an empty, destroyed shell, as lifeless as he is alone.

I resolve not to fail again.

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**Thank you for reading! :D  
I had better get an A on this. xD**


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